


a feminine lesion

by beescreee



Category: Original Work
Genre: Body Horror, Horror, Nonbinary Character, One Shot, Original Fiction, Trans Character, Visceral, this is a super exaugurated version of my gender euphoria lol, transmasc character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:22:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29173350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beescreee/pseuds/beescreee
Summary: le·sion/ˈlēZHən/Learn to pronouncenoun MEDICINEa region in an organ or tissue which has suffered damage through injury or disease, such as a wound, ulcer, abscess, or tumor.a short body horror story from a tranz person





	a feminine lesion

**Author's Note:**

> heyy, sorry if this is narratively all over the place, it's mostly a practice piece to get me back into writing original stuff

Fingers made of artificial spirals glide against their cheek, ghosting the little hairs and flesh, in a similar way where you can almost pretend that each finger belongs to another person, a fantastical delusion made by the feminine Lesion, to imagine a world where someone would pet a childhood doll; a creature in such a depressive, pitiful way. An inhuman touch still feeds a hungry mouth, too busy gorging on false sweets to complain about the plastic aftertaste.

Soft thumbs circle the chafed cheeks until they grow drier and bloom into a fiery flush. Rejected circles against skin transitions into picking, scraping at the paper-thin flakes, which turns to a motion similar to a resentful florist ripping and tearing up flower petals.

Meat comes off in small chunks but the body does not bleed, the feminine Lesion hates their body, feeling the heart pulse and pump in their chest as they wish they could crush it in their fist. Ceasing the hammering in a prickly, nettled pop to end the body jolting thumps. The romanticizing of stillness causes their restless heart to protest further.

Although maybe it’s not the heart they’re after, the rotting remains of the Lesion’s conventional femme, dead flesh that has not to know the love of their host for years now. A dull biological relationship where time adds to raw resentment.

The feminine Lesion is a hypocrite, more accurately a victim of forced hypocrisy, though they are not ready to realize their trickster duality and in turn, embrace their nature.

A creature born of love but not able to live free of under-stimulation 

A bearer of names but also a nameless figmentmented void

A bloodsucking comedian and the pale husk that craves the eyes and ears necessary to prove their existence.

This creature is not kind, only acting in the role of docile, empath around others while biting at self-preservation and cutting at the sinews keeping them tied.

This creature isn’t anything important in anyone else’s grandeur, nor their own, the only real accomplishment this Lesion could produce is the title of ‘dream trader’

Chills run through the Lesion, setting whatever is left of their singed, repressed nerves on fire, as they dream.

A feminine Lesion’s dreams are uncanny and murky, but they try to remember anyway.

A human chest gaping and gasping for breath, spurting and choking liquid through chattering teeth. And while sharp, painful grunts pierce the silence, the wound’s lips are smiling through the drying blood in contentment. It is flat and it is smiling.

A sparkling figure, stained with speckles of black, fiercely beat the feminine Lesion while they lay in bed. Their head caved in like a porcelain person as thick ripples of tar spilled out. They can smell the scene; burnt hot chocolate. The feminine Lesion’s retaliation ended a while ago and not a mark was left on the sparkling figure. As tar glazes over the Lesion’s eyes in a milky blackness, they fall unconscious while staring at the shining reaper that dominates with their light.

A humanoid figure stares at a broken mirror, they are not looking at themself but they cannot remember their features well enough to know for sure, the independent reflection brings a wash of euphoria to the watching figure; the conclusion they’ve come to is they are not the fractured projection. 

Dreams of visceral euphoria.

And although a destructive Lesion needs to be cut from the identity it hosts, a dreaming Lesion sucks the imagery and hope, becoming much harder to cut.

The feminine Lesion is, unfortunately, determined. 

Chained to a destructive determination to trade-off biological necessities in the name of pure euphoria, the Lesion understands the simple truth in a world built on falseness.

Necessities of the body are tended to for the ones made to add to the rotting ideal of the garden they were planted in, the feminine Lesion sees no future without joyful conclusions and therefore gives up the rational abilities their host is born within exchange for selfish additions.

The Lesion clamps down on the wet, musty leather in between their teeth, as they hack and saw at their pinky finger, a hack job at best but a trade nonetheless. 

After removing the finger, along with stray flesh strands caught in the crossfire, the feminine Lesion looks at their handiwork. The extremity squirms and drips from its place on the counter, like the severed leg of an insect trying to avert its predator’s gaze from the main body. It doesn’t fool anyone and dies slowly in its pool, the Lesion’s voice cracks like bone when they speak to no one for days afterward.

The feminine Lesion breathes heavily as they stare at their warped reflection in the mirror they’ve fogged up due to their excessive breathing, white knuckles gripping pliers that have their canine tooth in a death grip. The Lesion knows what to do, how to pull the unseemly tooth for the transaction, but they falter the execution. Self-mutilation on this degree is an untamed land for the feminine Lesion, despite their history spotted with blood and bruises, from shattered glass, needles, and from fighting a furious depression that would not give but only stand sturdy in their helpless cycle. Watching disappointment seers like a burn every time the Lesion starts the cycle over.

The Lesion finally twists and ignoring the sloppy cracks and the feeling of immense pressure, soon a release like a dam of blood floods their mouth. The Lesion falls as their vision blackens, the only thing they're able to do is messily wash their mouth out with the waiting peroxide as they wait for the dark spots to fade from their vision.

The Lesion pokes their curious tongue in the wound, a simple motion one might do as a child when they’ve lost their teeth, the Lesion admires the ghost of a darkening mustache above their cracked lips as their writhing tongue continues to prod and invade the red hole. They smile at their sweaty, oily face at a job well done.

Our Lesion is tired, all the tears to shed have been cried and now all that’s left are shoddy sobs as they cut away at their dead flesh. The shredded meat hangs loosely from their chest, whose boney and sputtering exterior convulses as the Lesion slices the final pieces from their torso. Each slice from the hyper sharp razor sends white electric shocks of pain throughout the Lesion’s form, they’ve given up tugging and ripping at loose meat.

Refeilf floods their weakened body as they collapse in a sticky puddle of their own making, releasing a scream like a bell chime as they slowly lose consciousness. 

The Lesion is sweet rotten meat, trying to find comfort in its own tightened sickness. 

A creature fascinated by its physical destruction while acting as though self-preservation is the only action in dire times of self-hatred. The unforgiving physical transition of the Lesion’s form being played as the broad term of “self-care”. The personal care of deformation for the sake of living a life, for a Lesion to take care for another day.

Despite the cynical, bloody circles their mind runs in, the Lesion is average; though average warps under an unforgiving mind.


End file.
